Thanksgiving 2010

Tomorrow morning I will make green bean casserole for 30 people, one of the groups in our small city of privilege who find themselves without permanent shelter on this day that Americans gather to give thanks. I made my initial trip to the market yesterday for the various canned ingredients I need, and for a large, disposable aluminum pan for baking this Thanksgiving favorite—green beans, immersed in cream of mushroom soup, and topped off with canned onion rings. Half way home from the market, I realized that I had left the pan at the checkout stand. Then I realized that I needed aluminum foil to cover the pan for transporting and a large disposable spoon for serving. Now I am completely armed. No doubt, my concoction will be much more visually appealing than the current commercials I’m seeing on TV, and as I write, I’m close to salivating as I imagine the aroma from the oven after about 30 minutes of baking time.

It’s no big deal—this modest contribution that will have taken no more than four hours of my life from the store to the serving line. How my offering will be received I can only imagine. I do know this, however. Giving is a privilege, regardless of the size of the gift. “Thank you, thank you, thank you” was at the heart of the pre-Thanksgiving talk last Sunday, specifically for those gathered in the beautiful replica of an historic northern New Mexican church in the heart of old Albuquerque. The minister talked about how for years she had begrudged the work of the Thanksgiving meal. Then one year, illness and the prospect of loss touched her family in what in the retelling is worthy of a Hallmark Hall of Fame story. Many of us drift toward the sentimental during the holidays. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” she repeated, and in the retelling, the privilege of giving thanks and sharing it with a few of those we care about became palpable.

I will gather with a few friends on Thanksgiving day. And though it won’t be our family’s version of the Hallmark holiday that will always remind me of how special my growing up years were, it will be a time with people who show me often that affection is about more than blood. Over the years I have realized that many people spend most of their adult lives away from the families into which they were born. Some people seem to prefer it this way. Tales of holiday dysfunction, such as the now-classic film, “Home for the Holidays,” bring both belly laughs and tears as we are reminded of how tough relating to our kin can get as we grow up and maybe think we’ve outgrown our families. My own family’s Hallmark card doesn’t look so much like a TV commercial. But it is our card—our very own story, and in our case, I know that it’s made us all better in so many ways. Like so many other memories, I wouldn’t trade it for gold.

To those who will share in the bounty of my green bean casserole and all the other traditional Thanksgiving bounty tomorrow—away from family, away from the shelter and safety that I knew growing up—I say “thank you” for giving me this opportunity. The gift is small, and in some way even impersonal. Yet I trust that when I stand in my kitchen tomorrow morning, I will know what giving thanks is all about, and I somehow will carry this to the table I share with friends on Thanksgiving day.

Thanksgiving 2010—Santa Fe, New Mexico (November 23, 2010)
R. Harold Hollis